Impasse
by slashburd
Summary: Punk and Cena - were they really ever meant to be? M/M Slashiness, if you don't like, don't read - you have been warned! First thing I've written for a while so go easy on me, okay? *grin* All reads/reviews appreciated!


The festive investment in the Beats headphones was looking to be a wise one. It gave him the ideal excuse not to reply to anyone whether he had music on or not – they never gave the game away. Shrugs and falsely apologetic hand signals were his new currency in telling people to fuck off when he wanted his own space and Punk didn't necessarily see that as a bad trade off in exchange for a little shy of three hundred dollars.

His insomnia was at all all time low, or high, depending on what time his next flight was. That meant more hours pounding the treadmill at the latest loop hotel's gym in the middle of the night. On would go the prized headphones, volume up to max on his iPod and away he'd go, mile after mile of reciting lyrics in his head as his feet kept a steady pace on the moving belt. He preferred there not to be a mirror and for once he had struck lucky. If there had been he would normally glare into it, holding his own gaze until the game of chicken was broken by the beads of sweat slipping off his forehead and blurring his vision. A slap of the emergency stop button was occasionally called for when it stung his eyes so badly that he really couldn't see.

A long day had been followed by an even longer night. No matter how tiring his match had been there didn't seem to be enough of his adrenaline burned off to let sleep kick in. An hour of tossing and turning had seen him so frustrated that shorts and a sloppy t-shirt were soon slipped back on and the door to his room closing behind him. Arriving to find the place deserted wasn't really a surprise but it remained a pleasant one nonetheless.

Half an hour into his run he heard the slam of the door over one of the slower tracks but paid it no notice. It wouldn't be the first time a fan or a maid had followed him in the hope of something TMZ-worthy. He always took a great pleasure in being the big disappointment in that respect, safe in the knowledge that a picture of him sweating wasn't worth shit. Well at least not to TMZ but he knew Colt might shell out a few hard earned bucks for it. Punk decided not to pay any attention once he made out the clanking sound of a weight machine on the wall behind him when the last track of an album faded out to silence. He figured that if someone else was there that late to try and get in shape then good luck to them.

~~x~~

It was months since their last hook up and John couldn't figure for the life of him what had caused the lapse in their little arrangement. Nothing had happened that he could remember, no cross words or bickering on which to place the blame. At least when Randy made tracks it had been because of his wife and kid. Punk had no reasons or excuses, at least none that John knew of. They were still civil backstage, amiable when out socially and worked together seamlessly in the ring. Eventually he resigned himself to believing that what had gone wrong seemed set to remain a complete mystery to him.

As he pulled the bar down his arms flexed so hard that the tight muscles felt like snapping, the tension in him built way beyond a point that could be considered healthy. He was glad that Punk hadn't noticed it was him, mainly because he didn't want to risk looking like the lovesick puppy that John feared he was slowly turning into. He wasn't chasing candlelit dinners and compliments, just the harsh and hard sex from someone that had sated his twisted libido more than anyone since Randy had. Allowing himself a breather between sets he fixed his eyes on the lean figure that bounced up and down on the treadmill, imagining the sheen of perspiration that would highlight the soft definition of Punk's back, eyeing the shorts which had started to cling as the humidity within them rose.

For moments which seemed far too long John debated with himself whether or not to get up and leave as the fabric of his own shorts was protruding crudely away from his body or just give it up and go over to make himself known and ask Punk outright what the hell had gone wrong. He wasn't quite sure what they were to each other any more but he suspected that looking desperate was the last thing that would get Punk interested in him again. Instead his mind wandered until it filled with a fantasy of being somehow bound to and restrained by the machine where he sat, arms secured above his head as the physical and verbal assault rained down on him. Only the deep ache in his shoulders brought him back to the room, his knuckles whitening around the bar as they strained to stop it dropping back to the base.

Weights released carefully, John sat for a moment and rolled his shoulders until the joints loosened. It was as he got up to get his towel that he noticed the treadmill stopping. Punk was struggling to stay on two feet and John didn't give a second's thought to heading over to see what was going on.

"Hey, man. Take it easy. You okay?"

"Just leave me alone John, I'm fi-"

With no more warning than a loud retching noise Punk felt his entire body convulse and his knees buckled. Before he knew it his body weight was no longer his own to bear. John had slid an arm under his shoulder and lifted him down carefully, half walking and half carrying him towards the bench near the door. Once he was sprawled on the cool wood he watched as John worked quickly to crack open one of the many iso drinks in his bag before thrusting it into his hand. Seconds later a small towel had been soaked in cold fountain water and draped around his neck. Punk knew that if he hadn't felt as close to passing out that he would find every one of John's helpful movements an irritation. Always knowing the right thing to do and say wasn't an attractive quality when it came bundled with the over-enthusiasm John was often guilty of.

"John..." Punk left the silence in the air a moment longer than usual, his head swimming from the neat rush from the pink energy drink in his hand. "Just stop, okay? You can stop fussing now but... look, thanks. I guess I took a turn."

"I'm gonna guess you didn't eat again today. I keep tellin' Vince we need those ice cream bars then maybe you'll start to put more than Pepsi in your mouth."

"Fuck you Cena. What are you – the diet police?"

With Punk's indignant head shake it was clear that John had said the wrong thing. He took a step back and rested his hand on the fountain, wishing he'd kept his opinion to himself. A few of the guys had speculated what was making Punk get so lean. They all knew it wasn't drugs and definitely not juice so there had to be something else. John had wanted to ask weeks ago but hadn't felt able to. Looking at the surprisingly gaunt figure that sprawled backwards on the bench he started wishing he had found the time to ask sooner.

"Hey, I'm sorry. I just never see you eat. All the time with the gym, the running and the bikes. I was startin' to wonder if Colt was eating you out of house and home but he's not here so there's gotta be some other reason you're getting so thin."

"John, I'm fine and even if I'm not it's nobody's business. Not you, not Ace, not Vince; nobody," The words were serious. Punk didn't want anyone concerning themselves with his business no matter how well intentioned. The reason behind the worsened insomnia and crazy exercise pattern was his closest guarded secret and he intended for it to stay that way. "And you don't get to mention this little episode to anyone, okay? Last thing I need right now is to have a sit down chat with Ann and some underqualified and overbearing quack about my 'health issues' as she likes to call them."

With a casual nod John acknowledged the point, not bothering to protest that he wasn't intending on saying a word. The nervous way in which Punk picked at the plastic cap of the bottle and constantly adjusted the damp towel on his neck was message enough that not everything was okay. Whilst he was sure that drink and drugs weren't behind the anxiety he had only the very vaguest inkling of what it might be.

John sat himself down on the floor, his back against a pillar and his interlocked fingers rested on the point of his bent knees. Fortunately he only caught a fleeting glimpse of the exaggerated eyeroll that was his thanks for sticking around. He knew that in his usual belligerent mood Punk would never be grateful for his company, that much was clear, but there was something telling him to stay put and talk a while.

"You had a good run lately, right?"

"Well, no John. I had _a_ run then comes along you, 'Berto and pretty much any other asskisser and I'm back to the bottom of the pile. I even lowered myself to buy Hunter a cup of coffee and guess what? I get nowhere."

Stifling a wry smile John couldn't help but see something of himself in the younger man. He was once the firebrand, the out-of-the-ordinary guy that everyone backstage was high on and apart from financially it had left him in a fairly unenviable position. In the hollowed out figure on the bench he saw a kindred spirit; both of them fighting one or the other of the two big entities in wrestling - management and the fans - to get to and stay where they were. John couldn't convince more than half the crowd to call his name out and the white shirts were outselling his five to one. The realisation came to him after the first pipebomb that things would never be the same for him again and the back seat was somewhere his ass needed to go and get comfortable. He knew that Punk on the other hand had just started to win over Hunter, Steph and eventually Ace and Hayes. It was slow going and there were a lot of commitments to make and hoops to jump through but if Punk was going to be his replacement then there was still a lot to learn.

"He prefers tea. Somethin' to do with Shawn and England I think. Anyhow, that's not what I meant. I just mean that you've been gettin' on screen, doin' the go homes at live shows, radio and TV slots every day. I think it's takin' off for you man, no matter how you see it right now."

"Thanks for the pep rally John but I'm a realist. The day this company truly lets me loose is the day that Vince rolls off a hooker one last time and croaks once and for all. Then I've got to get around Hunter and Steph. Not as hard but they still got a job to do for the shareholders so they tell me." Taking a deep drink from the bottle Punk couldn't stop himself from ranting more despite knowing that John had plenty of people to tell for all the wrong reasons. "This company, no, this fucking business is nothing without me. Hell, it's nothing without you, much as it pains me to say it. Both of us can make money but for some reason your face fits a whole lot more than mine does."

"C'mon man, that's old news. I'm on the slide, on the way to the door right now. You just gotta keep your head down, hand close; play the long ball game instead of..."

"John, enough with the SportsCenter bullshit okay?"

The sarcastic smile was enough to test even John's patience. As attracted as he was to the man mere feet away from him there was still a part of him that wanted to kick his ass as much as kiss it.

"Look, I got nothin' more to achieve here. I'm a dead cert for the Hall when there's a quiet year, I made cash enough to live on ten times over. If you know it all, you don't wanna listen then good for you. Maybe I'm only tryin' to stop you busting your ass until you puke or collapse every day for the rest of your life."

"You know what? Fuck you, Cena."

"Yeah, you did along with Maria, Layla, Beth, Barb, Amy...you need me to go on?"

With an incredulous look on his face Punk couldn't help but wonder where the boy scout and gone and the guy with some semblance of balls had appeared from. He wasn't used to hearing anything from John that wasn't some glib, saccharine laden statement designed to sell t-shirts to gullible parents. The only words he ever believed were the begging and pleading ones mumbled when he was ball deep in either of the warm orifices the bigger man had to offer.

"I don't think you can really consider yourself as part of that little group."

"You got a short memory Punk? I'm definitely in that mix. Granted it was a while back but I don't have myself down as completely forgettable. Way to give a guy props."

John stood and then paused to collect his bag from the ground, slinging it up and over his shoulder as he stared through Punk and away into his thoughts. Graphic images were fleeting and then fading, consigned more than ever to the corner of his mind reserved for sleepless nights on his bus and lonely hotel room beds. With a tip of his baseball cap he headed towards the door, almost glad that their exchange had calmed his hormones significantly and that his shorts felt a little looser around his groin.

"You make me feel fucking weak and I hate it, in fact the more I think about it I'm pretty sure I hate _you_."

Thick fingers froze around the door handle and feet stopped moving. Tilting his head to one side John caught sight of his confused squint in the glass of the door.

"Yeah, you heard. I hate you because I can't explain this. You, the poster boy and me the bomb maker. Some fucking unholy union there John. And don't get me wrong, I don't mean weak like some chick with a padded card and a bath full of rose petals. I mean weak in the guts; pretty much like there's something wrong with me." Punk forced himself to his feet, fighting with the unsteadiness in his legs but there was no way he would allow himself to give in to it. He stood facing John's back so the sound of his voice had nowhere else to go and was glad that John couldn't see the grimace on his face. "Something that makes me want to have what you have, want to break you down till I can be to this business exactly what you never deserved to become. And in the middle of all that, and who knows why, I want to fuck you through the ground every time I lay eyes on you."

For a while they stood in stone silence, the hum of the air conditioning the only thing drowning out their near synchronised breathing.

"You finished?"

"Yes, John. I am finished."

Sensing that there would never be a better time to get things off his chest John turned back to face Punk and did his best to read the weary expression. All he could see amounted to pain and worry lines partially hidden by facial hair and tired eyes trying their best to make the facial ensemble work somehow.

"You know how everything about you makes me feel?"

With a soft shake of his head Punk made it clear that he hadn't a clue. He wanted to say that he didn't care but the truth had become that he wasn't sure whether he did care or not.

"Alive."

With two steps back John was through the door and gone before Punk could digest the information or try to make sense of it. If he was honest he had noticed the hang dog look that sat on the normally smiling face in the last few months and had wondered if it was anything to do with him. Common sense told him to steer clear of the emotional side of their entanglement and just let it be whatever it was. Their frantic evenings had petered out once he started to want the sex, unable to pretend to himself that it was a chore or some kind of revenge to continue to treat John as he did. Of all the innumerate women and select men he had slept with not one of them afforded him the candid honesty that he got from John. Alive meant more to him than 'need', 'lust' or 'love' ever would. Alive was what he wanted too and in the pit of his stomach there was a notion that his best shot at it had just walked out of the door.


End file.
